It was Fleur Tilley who opened the door, and Hannah’s first thought was, I didn’t know they were friends.
– Oh it’s you, said Fleur. A whiff of bar furled out in the air behind her.
– I came to see Leo Hurley, said Hannah. The emptiness of her hands bothered her. She should have brought a file, a disc, a clip-board – something.
– Didn’t you know? said Fleur. He’s gone.
Hannah could smell the drink on her breath as she gestured her in.
– Gone where, asked Hannah, entering. The room was blank, almost empty. Two cans of Hooch and a packet of freeze-dried peanuts lay on the table. It was sprinkled with little flakes of peanut skin and salt.
– I’m only here till they tell me what’s next, Fleur said. Her eyes pooled with tears. – I’ll miss the Munchies. She lifted a can of Hooch, took a swig, moistened her lips ruminatively and swayed, grasping the chair for support.
– Gone where?
– Mohawk, I think. Or Lionheart. To one of the R and R facilities. Last week. One minute he was here – she waved vaguely at the room – the next he… didn’t say goodbye or anything.
– Last week? said Hannah, struggling with dates. Are you sure?
– Part of that big shake-up, Fleur said, licking a finger and prodding at the salt crumbs. After the Festival. You know. She licked the salt off her finger, and a muscle at the corner of her mouth spasmed: a tiny facial earthquake. – Well, it’s been turmoil, hasn’t it, with the mass re-fucking-prioritise. She giggled. – I’m in deep shit, as you’d expect.
– I didn’t know about any of this, said Hannah. I haven’t been around. I mean, he didn’t say there’d been a general shake-up.
– Where’ve you been, on Mars? Fleur squinted at her, trying to focus.
– I had this deadline, on a new project.
– Ah. Well, there you go. She gave a little sigh. – Everyone who’s anyone was assigned their own little personal thing.
– I guess that’s what happened then, said Hannah, remembering Harvey Kidd. There was a dizzying lurch whenever she thought of him.
She hadn’t realised everyone was being given special tasks. Pike had presented the project to her as something special. Reward success, questionnaire failure. She’d thought it was a one-off, specially designed for her. Now she could see how absurd that was, how grandiose and blinkered. Fleur was swaying again, and Hannah wondered if she might pass out.
– So where did you send the e-mail to Leo?
– E-mail? said Fleur. She seemed to have forgotten, and blinked. – Oh. To the R and R centres, I think. Her eyes were suddenly blank. – Sorry, I’ve got to sit down. And she did, brusquely.
– And?
– And what? Oh. Nothing. He hasn’t replied. Look, Hannah PARK, why don’t you have a drink. You’re always so buttoned-up. That’s your trouble. Hope you don’t mind my saying.
– It’s all right, said Hannah. I just wanted – just some files… no, I can get them from – It’s OK. She was backing away now.
She had a sudden urge to tell Fleur that she wasn’t buttoned up, she wasn’t a virgin any more, that Fleur wasn’t the only one who did it against desks, that she’d met a man who –
– Drink’d do you good, said Fleur. But please yourself. She giggled again. – You are dismissed.
What’s going on, Hannah thought as she closed the door on Fleur. If I disappear, Leo’d said, that day he’d handed her the brown envelope. She’d thought it was paranoia. Called him a Munchie. She’d have to get hold of it. Read what was inside.
She hated this.
I’m scared, she thought. It hit her like a bump.
All the way to St Placid she fingered the little green heart sticker on the inside of her wrist, a tiny patch of pressure. The feel of it electrified her blood. She was struck by the way the atmosphere seemed different. Thicker. Everything seemed to glisten. Instead of disintegrating, the air-crystals had landed and settled, bejewelling benches, tram-stops, and window-ledges. It was beautiful, eerie. It jolted a distant memory of Atlantica years ago, before Libertycare and the climate change: snow and ice. But her recollections of the past were shaky. You couldn’t trust memory any more. Perhaps the snow and ice were just something she’d seen on screen, something that happened in other countries. The tram was still fifteen minutes from the city when she noticed the first rainbow – a luminous gash of purple, sepia, bottle-green, and sulphurous yellow – hooped across the skyscrapered horizon. A child might have drawn such an arc with a fistful of dirty crayons. It was weirdly moving, and tears welled up, hot and tingling. It was as though the whole world had shifted shape. Even the people looked different, bursting with health and energy, like irradiated fruit. And as for herself, it was almost as though she had new organs in her body: new eyes, a new heart. It made her feel light as air, and freakishly happy – so happy she wondered if she might be on the verge of a breakdown. The tiniest thing seemed to make her want to laugh and cry.
– Some flowers would have been nice, said Tilda, opening the door. You look different.
– I am different, said Hannah, realising it as she spoke.
– So am I, said Tilda. I’ve got fresh kneecaps.
Hannah followed her mother as she limped into the lounge, clutching her medical dossier. Things felt odd, indoors. Then it struck her.
– Ma, the house… the corridor. Something’s happened. It feels like it’s all – I don’t know, tilted.
– Well spotted! said Tilda. It slopes to the north-east. Subsidence. The Libertycare Liaison man, Benedict Sommers, he’s having it seen to.
The name rang a distant bell.
– Lovely man. Good-looking too. She said it hopefully.
Hannah laughed – a strange noise that slipped out unbidden – and turned away.
– What’s so funny? asked Tilda sharply. They were sitting in the lounge now. Tilda had planted both feet on her footstool.
– Nothing, said Hannah, lightly, her thoughts still dancing wildly. Then, to stop her mother pressing the subject further, she asked – So what does he say, about the subsidence?
– Well. You know, that it’s being investigated. They’re doing some big survey apparently. I’ve bought myself a spirit level.
She pointed to the mantelpiece, and Hannah saw it: a long plastic rectangle containing a Perspex panel. The bubble – floating in a bilious green liquid – was well to the left of centre.
– But actually, that’s not the main worry at the moment, he told me. Well, it is a worry, but it’s what’s causing it that’s the real problem.
– And what is causing it?
– Well, even before Mr Sommers told me, I’d already heard things.
The name Sommers was definitely familiar. It bothered Hannah that she couldn’t place it.
– I think it started off as a rumour, Tilda was saying. Just in the neighbourhood. Then Fanny Urdle, you know my friend, two doors down? She said she reckoned her sister’s son-in-law might be involved in something to do with drugs. And then there was someone at bowls said he’d heard of a small cult. Some real rotten apples. There was an anxious excitement in her voice.
– So these rotten apples, said Hannah, her eyes scanning the room. What about them?
Where had Tilda put Leo’s envelope?
– Well then, a couple of days later, said Tilda, just after my op, the Liaison associate, Mr Sommers – I call him Benedict – he comes again, and he confirms it, about the rotten apples.